


addict with a pen

by artdeficient



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:51:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5334809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artdeficient/pseuds/artdeficient
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a sad boy loves oceans and sea breezes and the time in between day and night, so he sits by the sea with a sketchbook and sometimes, another boy joins him and sometimes, that’s okay</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dan loves the ocean.

He loves the fusion of colours, smooth greens and greys which make up the water; loves the way the edges of waves lap up at his feet, biting him with cold. He loves the way it seems to be both calm and vehement at once, loves the rich sound of white horses, racing up to the shore only to draw back at the last minute; Dan uses the ocean as his diary, and he treats it as his friend.

It’s almost always overcast where he lives, in a small, almost desolate beach town in the middle of nowhere, where the sky doesn’t change and the cold gets under his skin, but he likes it all the same. It’s littered with cobbled streets and sandy coves and Dan finds a sort of peace, living here, that’s he’s never had before. The day gives him patience and the night gives him rolling waves and a cold breeze, and Dan’s very okay with it all, despite his loneliness. He tells himself a small moleskine sketchbook and the sounds of the beach will make up for anything he doesn’t have. He knows that’s a lie, but for now but doesn’t have much else.

Tonight, it’s freezing. The sky is a mess of dappled blues and greys, raindrops falling onto his cheeks as he looks out at the horizon but it’s okay, because Dan wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else.

Dan stands at the shore, hands shaking as he twists them together in front of him. The horizon is a thin, thin line and Dan wonders if it can even be reached because hypothetically, once he gets there, there’s another, darker horizon ahead and he thinks that maybe he’s just thinking too hard, because his lips are tingling from the sting of tiny raindrops falling on his face and his hair is blowing slightly, contributing to the sudden cold that rolls over his figure in waves. Dan’s always been criticized for thinking too hard.

And it’s not that he’s not particularly sad, as such. Just contemplative, in a way which makes his head ache and his fingers grasp for something to hold onto, clutching his sketchbook as a form of support. It’s strange because although Dan can feel every pinprick of rain on his cheeks, every grain of sand under his feet, he’s still numb; his heart drags in his chest, pulling him down and he can’t breathe, but he’s still numb. He doesn’t quite know whether its a privilege or not, to feel everything and nothing at the same time. He supposes it’s a better alternative to crippling sadness.

Dan sits down by the shore, close enough to catch the sea spray on his cheeks, but not enough for the waves to tumble over him and ruin his sketchbook. The moleskine is pulled out of the pocket of his woolen jacket, opened up with shaking hands. And it’s a moment, where Dan sits with a pen pressed against his lips as he stares out at the ocean, watching the blending of blues and greens and greys into a mix of time between night and day, until he uncaps the pen lid and begins to draw.

It’s nothing interesting, that night. Just a confusion of scribbles in black, words falling over sketches in a way that wouldn’t make sense to anyone other than Dan. But somehow, it calms him more than anything else could.

-

It’s a few days before Dan has the chance to go back down to the sea, because he’s caught up with working for his mum’s friend Julie at the B&B and everything just sort of falls on top of him, a little. He lives there, at the B&B, in a small room with a radiator that takes up a whole wall and frilly white curtains and a view out at Marton’s Cove, and he likes it, really. It’s quite cramped, but Dan hardly spends any time in there, anyway, with the structure of his days. He doesn’t love his job, but he appreciates all the efforts Julie has gone to in order to get him a job, make him a little happier. Dan’s mother has always been worried sick with him; he hates it, the way she nags, pulls at his strings, but he’s scared her enough in the past to make it reasonable, and so he stays at the B&B with Julie, and he works, and he smiles at old ladies.

Dan gets off work at 4pm, after welcoming an old couple into one of the B&B’s incredibly small rooms with a smile that hurt his cheeks, and so he walks down by the seafront and decides to buy himself some fish and chips. It’s quite a common routine for him, so much so that the shopkeeper, John, knows his name and greets him with a grin each time he goes in. Today isn’t any different; except there’s a boy standing in front of the counter, and John’s occupied, not looking up at Dan until he’s stood directly behind the questioning boy.

“Ah! Dan, how are we today?” John smiles, looking over the boy’s shoulder at Dan, who returns it wearily.

“I’m doing okay,” Dan replies, fueling more optimism into his voice than he can possibly feel. “Lots of new customers at the B&B today.”

The boy in front of him seems to contemplate whether to turn round or not as John finishes packing up his order, and only does so after John’s handing the package over at the counter, giving Dan a small smile to which Dan reciprocates, noting blue eyes and a flash of black hair. The boy pays, long fingers fumbling through his wallet to find a debit card, and Dan raises his eyebrows at the gesture. Maybe he’s just used to it, but Dan hasn’t needed anything other than cash for the past three years living here, and it comes as a surprise.

“Margaret and Peter arrived, yet?” John asks Dan whilst waiting for the payment to go through.

Dan nods, a knowing smile twitching his lips upward.

“They were the last couple I checked in. Kept going on about how they were going to come down here as soon as they got unpacked and get their ‘dose’. I think Margaret’s expecting a discount because of her hip.”

John laughs, shaking his head as he thanks the boy, who moves out of the way quickly, package in hand. Dan casts a glance at him before he leaves the shop, gaze wandering, before he’s snapped back to the conversation at hand, and John’s sarcastic but cheerful remarks.

“Tell her I’ll give her 20%, cheeky bugger.”

-

It’s raining when he goes down to the ocean that night, even more so than the last time; it’s more of a downpour, and Dan’s glad he brought a proper coat to hide his face in. The sea seems to spit at him, rolling waves almost roaring up to the tips of his boots before drawing back, and he loves it like this. It’s not quite dark, but herds of black clouds thunder in around the cove in a way which makes him curl into his coat further, fingers gripping the lining of his sleeves. Dan can’t pull out his sketchbook tonight, but he finds the sea almost speaks for him, drowning out thought and concentration with wave after wave of murky green.

He steps in between layers of sea foam and craggy rocks, gaze swallowing the vast expanse in front of him. It’s a beautiful sight, one that he never gets sick of, no matter how many nights he spends down here. The waves crash over his feet, and his boots are beginning to get a little wet but he doesn’t mind, because it makes him feel something. Dan’s like a puppet, in that respect. Give him a life of misery for 17 years and he ends up not knowing how to function, after being pulled around by his friends, his family; the people he had no choice in controlling everything he did. Now the strings are loose; Dan doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, or where he’s going or how he’s holding himself up but he’s doing it anyway, and he guesses his mind is more elaborate than he gives credit for. Not that he knows how to give credit for himself.

The winds only get stronger, rain battering at his body as he’s thrown about on the rocks, and perhaps it’s verging on dangerous for Dan to be out here but he reckons he can stay a little longer, breathe it all in a little more. It’s when he hears a voice, calling out to him from a little way away on the beach. Dan can hardly make the figure out in the darkness but he moves towards it anyway, wondering if the person is in some sort of danger. They’re stumbling forwards, hands wrapped tightly around themselves as they make their way towards Dan, and as they approach he realises who it is.

“Dan!” The boy from the fish shop comes into earshot, and he’s maneuvering his way along the rock towards Dan almost desperately. Dan’s a little confused, but he responds in good manners.

“Yeah? Are you okay?” he calls, watching the boy come closer with an eyebrow quirked. The winds almost knock the boy off the rock, and Dan rolls his eyes, brushing back curls of hair as they’re whipped around by the gale.

The boy finally lands next to him and stares, eyes wide. “What are you doing out here?”

Dan gathers a breath, letting his gaze rest on the ocean rather than his company. The tone’s changed, almost as quickly as it had appeared. “I come out here a lot. Why?” He’s blunt, and he knows it, but this is his place and the boy shouldn’t be here.

“It’s dangerous. You could get swept away by the waves, or crack your head on the rocks, or-”

“I know what I’m doing.” Dan interrupts, words harsher than he expected. The boy seems to flinch back, but stands his ground, staring right at Dan.

“Don’t you want to like- I don’t know, sit in a warm room with a hot drink and read a book, or something? Wouldn’t that be better?”

“No.”

Dan looks at the boy then, really looks at him. He notes, again, wide blue eyes, slightly dilated in the evening light, a mess of black hair, a slightly confused but amused smile tinting the edges of his lips. He’s never been here before, Dan can tell.

“What’s your name?” he calls over the wind, eyes flashing. The boy seems to take it as an invitation.

“Phil.” the boy says, and nods, tilts his head. “Do you want me to leave?”

Dan thinks the name suits him, in a way. Phil reminds him of ink and raven feathers and the colour turquoise, and he’s different. In the sense that he’s the same as everyone Dan’s ever met in his life, except he has this demeanour, this almost compelling way of holding himself which makes Dan want to sit and figure him out over a sketchbook and a coffee. He lets himself smile a little.

“You don’t have to.”

Phil doesn’t.

-

Julie lets Dan off the following Sunday with a pat on the back and a suggestion of ‘having a little relaxation time’, which he isn’t sure how to respond to with other than a ‘thank you’. Mostly because he isn’t sure what he’s actually going to do for the whole day, other than sit out on the concrete wall overlooking a pebbled section of beach and draw in his sketchbook. He decides it isn’t such a bad idea; maybe Dan can actually get something done, instead of messing with overemotional rough sketches that bleed into his paper and darken the sides of his hands with ink.

The ice cream parlour down by the beach is open and a young family stand in front, children clambering over their parents’ limbs in an effort to get their desired flavour. It’s a cute shop, all pastel pinks and whites, and Dan decides over a few long seconds to treat himself to one. Not that Dan hasn’t indulged himself enough already, but he has a lot of money from working at the B&B to spare, and he doesn’t care enough about his future to save it all away. So naturally, he spends it on ice cream.

The family move away from the counter after one of their children’s ice creams has a near death experience, giving Dan the opportunity to see exactly who is working behind it.

“Phil?”

Phil looks up from where he’s wiping strawberry ice cream off the counter and smiles, eyes crinkling a little. He brushes his hands on his apron after giving Dan a cheerful greeting, and Dan watches them fall back to his sides before replying.

“I didn’t know you worked- So you’re not a tourist, then? You’ve really moved here?” Dan sounds too hopeful and he knows it, but he’s still not dampening the smile that twitches at the corners of his mouth, biting his lip in order to stop a grin erupting and damaging his calm and collected demeanour. Phil nods, resting his elbows on the counter, chin in hands.

“Yeah. It’s certainly different, here, but I like it.  The job is enjoyable and the pay is okay and the scenery from here is beautiful, so I’m happy.” He stares out past Dan at the scene behind him, soft waves rolling into a pebbled beach, and Dan can only agree.

“Where did you come from? Before-”

Phil’s features twist a little, but he quickly rearranges them into something unsuspecting. Dan notices, though. “Manchester. I wasn’t going anywhere there and- and so I just- moved here.” He straightens up, brushes down his apron. Dan doesn’t push anything.

“It’s nice here.” He comments instead, perhaps a little obviously, but Phil doesn’t seem to mind.

“It is,” Phil echoes with a smile, and raises an eyebrow. “What flavour would you like?”

“Caramel?”

“Good choice.”

Phil turns around to make Dan’s request, and he’s left staring at the back of Phil’s head, wondering why all of this feels so new.

-

Dan’s sketches only get worse.

Not in quality, although they aren’t very distinctive, just lines twisting together to make a sort of discernible shape resemblant to a human portrait, or ocean waves. More in the sense that the lines get darker, run vividly into the creases of paper and stain the pages underneath with the pressure he’s inflicting onto his sketchbook. He’s becoming more aggressive with each detail, adding sharper flicks and leaving harsher indents of ink than usual, and he doesn’t know why but he finds himself wanting to express. Express what, Dan’s not really sure; he’s not particularly sad, just contemplative.

If there’s one thing he can rely on to be a constant, though, it’s the weather. It’s gloomy and dark and a dozen shades of cold hit his cheeks as he sits down on the sand for the fourth time that week, adding a pink tinge to his features and making him feel a little less dead. His moleskine is pulled out and he’s drawing, inflicting a certain violence onto crisp white pages that he’s never felt the need to before. Dan’s feeling desperate, almost sick in his need to get rid of the feeling that he’s not okay anymore, and yet it doesn’t go away no matter how much he presses his pen into the paper. He doesn’t want to reflect on his works anymore, doesn’t want to flip back a page to see yesterday’s drawings, because they’re ugly and hold too much emotion and Dan’s not used to being this overwhelmed by his own mind.

Dan shuts the sketchbook with a sigh after more than a few attempts at coherent drawing, shoving it back into his pocket like it’s offended him in some way. It isn’t working, and so he tries another method, picking himself up and moving to sit at the shore. The sand is wet, almost freezing as he settles by the waves, but at this point Dan really doesn’t care. He needs clarity; needs something to make sense. The thing is, waves don’t really offer him anything other than a calming soundtrack.

It’s a while that Dan sits there, fiddling with his hands and pushing them into the frigid water every so often, til they’re going a little blue from the cold and Dan reckons it’d be a good idea to get back to the B&B and warm up. Except, he’s not going to. There’s something stopping him from moving, a mental block which seems to immobilize him and keep his limbs locked in place, and so he stays sitting, hands shaking with cold. The dark seems to envelope his surroundings, clouds sinking further into nondescript shapes until it’s completely black out and the only light source comes from the moon on the water, and the small, faded street lamps a little way away. Dan’s completely secluded, out here. He feels more than a little sick.

The feeling only increases when a figure appears beside him and Dan almost jumps out of his skin, muttering curse words into his hand as he looks up. Phil’s there, looking down at him in worry and contemplation and Dan doesn’t really need this right now but he’s too polite to say anything, really.

“You’ll get hypothermia.” Comes Phil’s words of wisdom, and Dan only just stops himself from rolling his eyes. “Is it really worth it, out here?”

“Yes.” Dan leaves barely a second to reply, adamant on convincing Phil his situation is not at all pathetic and rather, something a normal, functioning person would do. It doesn’t quite work; not that he thought it would.

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s pretty out here. But you’re in a t-shirt, Dan, and your hands look ready to morph into icicles.”

“S’nice though.” Dan mumbles, a last attempt to get Phil to leave him alone. Phil sighs.

“You’re coming with me, and we’re going back to my place and I’m making you the most delicious, hottest hot chocolate you’ve ever had. Alright?”

Dan hardly gets a word in before Phil’s pulling him upwards, gripping onto his hands tightly in an effort to warm them up. Phil’s grip doesn’t loosen as they make their way towards the top of the beach, only dropping one of Dan’s hands to hold the other, and if anything, Dan’s almost wishing for him to just not let go. It makes him sort of uncomfortable that he’s so willing, but Phil’s hand is warm and he’s still smiling at Dan despite how stupid and irrelevant Dan is, so he sucks it up and lets himself relax. It won’t last long; Dan has to make sure he cherishes it all while it lasts.

-

They make it back to Phil’s cottage and Dan’s shivering so hard his body is almost convulsing, jolting upwards in jarred motions. He’s trying so hard not to show it but he knows Phil’s seen it anyway, judging by the looks of concern Phil keeps shooting him every 5 seconds, and so he just curls his arms into his chest and keeps his gaze to the floor. Phil lets them in and throws the keys onto a table by the door, not waiting for Dan to catch up before darting off into the house. It’s dark, still cold, but Phil’s flicking the lights on and turning up the central heating and once Dan gets a moment to look around, he’s pleasantly surprised by what he sees. The cottage isn’t big; one bedroom, by Dan’s judgement, but it feels inviting, with plush suede sofas and a flatscreen tv above the fireplace, and Dan sits down, still shivering, and pulls a blanket over his legs. He’s feeling a little inadequate, a little bewildered because he really doesn’t know what he’s doing here. But.

Phil comes back a moment later, a hoodie and blankets draped over his arms, a mug of hot chocolate in his hands.

“You need this.” Is all he says, handing the hoodie to Dan, who pulls it on gratefully before taking the steaming mug from Phil’s hands. It’s such a dramatic temperature change Dan almost drops it, but quickly pulls his sleeves up to lessen the heat.

“Thank you.”

Phil shakes his head, though his expression is fond. As fond as he can be whilst coming to terms with a melancholic idiot who can’t find the problems with staying out in the harsh colds of late autumn. “You’re so confusing.”

“I just-” Dan contemplates his words, trying to find away around sounding incredibly pretentious, and moreover, ridiculous. “I don’t notice the cold , most of the time. It’s- Yeah. It’s my place, you know? The beach, the sea.”

“For a writer, you really don’t have that many words.” Phil comments, looking more than amused.

“Artist-” Dan corrects, “I’m an artist. I draw, mostly.”

Phil raises an eyebrow but nods, turning back to the kitchen before returning with his own steaming mug. Dan shifts in his seat, but Phil sits across from him instead, looking thoughtful.

“What do you draw?” he asks, before retracting a little. “Is that an invasive question?”

Dan watches him for a second, studying the appealing goldenrod shade of Phil’s jumper. It shouldn’t suit his skin tone, but somehow it does.

“I’m not very good,” Dan ends up saying, before cursing himself mentally because really, his addiction to self deprecation isn’t always welcomed. “Just sketches. They’re quite abstract- lines, shapes, figures, that kind of thing. Usually I put too much thought into them and they end up a little melodramatic, and I get ink all over my hands which you’ve probably noticed, I stained one of my favourite jumpers last week-”

He stops himself with the thought that maybe, he shouldn’t be telling Phil all of this. Even though he’s hardly said anything of depth. But Phil seems satisfied, crossing his legs on the sofa, mug in hand.

“They sound nice. Interesting. I’d love to have a look, if you wouldn’t mind, but I get it- personal and all that.”

Dan’s fingers curl into his jumper sleeves. “Maybe one day.”

Phil takes it as an answer, nodding before glancing over at the clock. “Want to watch a movie? It’s late, but-”

“Yeah,” Dan interrupts, almost too enthusiastically, “What have you got?”

-

It’s late when he gets back to his room, and the tinny sound of his key in the door echoes as he tries to wiggle it in such a way that it actually unlocks. The B&B is old; Dan knows that, he just doesn’t exactly have the patience to accept its age and general shoddiness at 3am in the morning, when he’s half asleep and exhaustion is settling into his bones, ache smothering his muscles every time he moves his arms and legs.

The cold hits him as soon as he’s inside and Dan groans, kicking off his shoes before padding over to his bed and falling face first onto the sheets. He’s still wearing Phil’s hoodie, not that Phil would ever let him take it off, and it’s nice, smells like something indecipherable which Dan hazily labels as ‘warm’. Dan doesn’t usually tire this easily but somehow he’s drifting to sleep within moments, fingers curled around his sheets as he moves to pull them over him and bury himself in pillows. All he can think about as he shuts his eyes is the soft tones of Phil’s skin and Phil’s hair and the way they contrast, the way Phil laughs with his tongue between his teeth, the way he taps his fingers in patterns along his thighs in absent moments, and how Dan would quite like to draw every aspect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted on tumblr


	2. isle of flightless birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dan finds that coping with the pressure of an undefined anxiety is proving harder than ever.

The nights get colder. And unlike most people, Dan doesn’t really complain about the early sunsets and the darkening of streets at 4pm; he quite likes the extra time spent wallowing and convincing himself not to go and see Phil. Mostly for the fact that he’s been to Phil’s house three times in the last four days for no apparent reason other than his need for company, and Phil’s probably getting a little sick of him by now.

Dan has a lot of spare time now, though, because of the rapid decline in guests at the B&B as winter approaches, and so he doesn’t really have anything to do except walk around by himself and try not to go insane. It’s not hard to in a place like this, with the population consisting solely of the retired and small business owners. Dan doesn’t really have any friends, unless Phil counts. But, he supposes he doesn’t mind; he’s not exactly an extrovert, and he’s lived here long enough to know things aren’t going to change anytime soon.

So, mostly, he does what he’s always done; sits on the beach with his moleskine and his ipod, and sketches. Despite how much Dan loves his Radiohead, the intrusion of music is sometimes unwelcome, and so on occasion, like today, he just lies back on the sand with his eyes closed and listens to the waves. They’re like a constant in his head, the waves. Consistent, a white noise that echoes until he’s floating in the space between awareness and subconsciousness, one which brings a sense of calm that he doesn’t quite know how to explain That is, until someone decides to shock him out of his own skin.

Dan’s slammed back into consciousness as a pair of hands settle over his eyes and he shoots up, hands scrabbling for the open sketchbook he managed to forget about in favour of sleeping. He shoves the sketchbook back into his coat pocket before the offender has time to see any more of his works and blinks, eyes focusing on the figure beside him.

Of course. _“Phil!”_ he breathes, half relieved.

“Sorry,” Phil says from beside him, hands smoothing down his shirt as he settles back into a cross legged position. “I was going to grab your shoulders but I thought that’d be a bit of a shock.”

Dan fixes him with a glare. Phil just keeps laughing, and so he rolls his eyes, not able to dampen the small smile that breaks out at Phil’s words. “That was a shock enough, Jesus _Christ_ , Phil.”

“Sorry,” Phil mumbles again with a smile, before turning to face Dan completely. “Are you busy?”

“Now?” Dan raises his eyebrows. “Of course not.”

Phil’s smile widens and he seems to contemplate Dan for a second. “Can I sit with you then?”

“Of course not.” Dan repeats jokingly, though his features are soft. He shuffles back, gesturing for Phil to move closer. He’s surprisingly not at all bothered by the disturbance, willing for Phil to take up his personal space and crowd the corners of his head for the next few hours if it gives him any distraction from the loneliness he blatantly denies. Phil moves close, flopping back onto the sand.

It’s silent for a second, a seagull calling in the distance as Dan gathers his thoughts enough to voice them. “Do you want to talk? Because like, you know- I usually just sit here. I’m not very good company,” he admits, bringing a hand up to mess with his fringe. Phil doesn’t seem fazed.

“I don’t mind. You’re not bad company,” Phil adds, and Dan can feel his gaze from where he’s looking out at the sea, “You’re just. Unusual? Because you could not talk for hours and we could just sit here and it’d somehow still be comfortable.”

Dan just nods, slowly. “Well. That’s good.” He’s guarded, for some reason, and the realisation stings because he’s found someone who cares, someone who wants to know. Yet.

Phil takes the message, tilting his head from Dan back to the sky and shutting his eyes. Their conversation is stilted, unstable. It always has been. But somehow, in the few weeks they’ve gotten to know each other through endless small talk and quiet contemplations, Dan feels closer to Phil than anyone in his life back home. He supposes, he’ll let down his guard after he understands Phil a little more. Ironically, it’s the fear that Phil will give up on him or think he’s rude that stops Dan from chasing him.

He tries not to flinch too hard when Phil’s fingers lock with his own on the sand, half an hour later.

—-

It’s late when Dan opens his eyes. So late that twilight is setting into the clouds, scratching at the corners of the sky and bleeding into a blend of purples and blues. With a drawn out glance at the sky he twists around, but stops at the pressure on his waist. Dan stiffens, for a long second.

Phil’s arm is draped around his middle, his body curled in towards Dan, and for a moment Dan just settles back into place and looks at him. He’s not sure what to think; Dan’s never been used to any form of physical intimacy, whether platonic or otherwise, and the gesture catches him off guard. Surprisingly, though, he decides it isn’t all that bad.

He’s about to reach out for Phil’s hand when Phil’s eyes open, soft and tired.

“Hello.” Phil murmurs, and Dan just smiles.

“We fell asleep on the beach in the middle of the afternoon,” Dan remarks as a reply, lifting his head a little to scan his surroundings. Luckily, the beach is deserted. “Is that what normal people do?”

Phil scoffs, retracting his hands from Dan’s waist almost casually before rolling himself into a tighter ball. “Probably not.”

“You’re very affectionate when you’re tired.” Dan comments a little offhandedly, trying his best not to make things awkward. He’s not exactly uncomfortable, just not used to it. And the edges of his head blur with sleep and something cold but he’s too tired to fight it off, just lets the overwhelming feeling of veins tightening and throat constricting take over. On the outside, he supposes, it won’t show all too much.

“Are you uncomfortable with it? I’m sorry if-”

“No,” Dan says, holding out a hand to strengthen his point. “It’s just- different.”

Phil looks up at him, then, studying him for a long moment. Dan finds himself strangely at ease, though, and so he smiles. The tightening of invisible hands stops, for a short time.

It’s a second before Phil nods, and then he’s moving to stand up, holding out a hand. “Let’s go back to mine.”

Phil’s house is starting to feel more like home than his own room at the B&B, these days.

-

Phil makes them both cups of tea, and Dan’s cup burns his fingertips, chews into the palms of his hands until he finds the conscience to hold it by the handle, instead. He’s not sure why all forms of logic, all processes of ‘this is good, and this is bad’ have suddenly been wiped out of his mind, and the lack of stability mutes his head, a little. Because it takes Dan approximately four minutes to realise that his mug is searing his palms, and another minute to realise that Phil didn’t invite him back for him to just stare into space. It’s like- he’s disoriented, the sort of puzzled that won’t have a happy ending no matter how many puzzle pieces he jams into an empty slot. So he coughs, and blinks until the colour of Phil’s rug focuses into jarring shades of red and gold.

Phil notices his apparent absence from reality, his sense of verisimilitude*, but doesn’t comment. Somehow over the time they’ve known each other Phil has learnt to just watch, rather than question, because Dan has few words and what ones he does have are heavily lathered with restraint. And it’s okay, mostly. Because Phil may not care why Dan doesn’t function like a normal person, he may do. Dan doesn’t know much save for what little he can study with his gaze.

They end up watching some TV show neither of them are really focused on, and the lights are off, and the room is setting into dark. It should be cold, but Dan grabbed a blanket that was hanging on one of the chairs in the kitchen and draped it over them both, letting Phil shuffle close until the space between them was static. Dan doesn’t dare move any closer, or let Phil’s fingers intertwine with his own. He’s a little scared Phil will feel how shaky he is; his mind is concave, elapsing into something indistinguishable and he’s been staring at the TV screen for 4 minutes, possibly 5, he doesn’t know, but the colours are seeping into each other and the backs of his eyes burn as if they’re going to rupture his skull. He’s okay.

Phil shifts after a while, moving both his and Dan’s cups (Dan had been holding his, empty, for a reason he wasn’t quite sure about) to the table in front of them before leaning back into Dan’s side. His fingers come up to trace the outline of freckles on Dan’s arm and Dan feels almost vacant as he watches, blinking at the goosebumps Phil’s fingers leave in their wake. He’s okay.

“Your freckles suit you,” Phil mumbles, voice not unusually quiet in the dim light of the room. “They’re like- skin stars.”

The edges of Dan’s lips twitch with affection. “Skin stars?”

“Yeah,” Phil pulls Dan’s arm closer, until it’s resting on top of the blanket between them, and begins his tracing attempts for a second time. “If I had a pen I’d play connect the dots. Join them all together, then you’d have little constellations on your forearms.”

“You’re such a dork.” Dan murmurs, blinking a few times as his vision clears and spots of yellow clear into nothing. He’s almost awed in the way Phil manages to snap him back into some sort of actuality, the way he can already begin to feel the weight of his arms come back to him, aching numbness subsiding in favour of taking in Phil’s fucking skin star theories. It’s a second before he remembers to smile; another before he realises he already was.

Phil’s staring at him, now, gaze flicking over every thought process Dan seems to be going through and it’s surprising to Dan that he doesn’t feel uncomfortable, only content. He’s a little frightened to know he feels sheltered from the way Phil watches him, a little nervous at the way he wants to wrap his arms around Phil’s waist and burrow into his chest. It’s not new. Just.

“I would get up and put a light on, but i’m really warm and you’re comfortable to lie on.” Phil confesses, moving his hands back to Dan’s and twisting them together. Dan finds he really doesn’t mind.

“S’fine,” Dan’s yawning, flopping his head back onto the head of the sofa as the sounds of the TV blur into the background and the imprints of colours echo onto the dark of the ceiling, projecting disallusion. Phil squeezes his hand and it doesn’t occur to him that he’s perfectly okay with squeezing back. “You are really warm,” comes after a moment of silent contemplation, and Dan rolls so that his head is dangerously close to resting on Phil’s shoulder. “You’re like a space heater.”

“Good thing,” Phil says with a hint of a smile in his voice, “Lots of skin stars need warming up.”

Dan slaps his arm and Phil rolls away laughing, dodging the cushion that’s thrown at his head in a lazy fashion. “Get away with your stupid space junk,” Dan drawls, unable to keep the smile off his face, “You’re the biggest d- Phil!”

“What?” Phil raises his eyebrows, giggling at the look of pure surprise on Dan’s features, his eyes wide and lips parted. Dan’s gaze is fixed on something behind them as he suddenly lurches towards Phil to grab the thing of intrigue.

“I didn’t know you had a cat?” he says once settled back into his seat, with a gigantic Norwegian forest cat in his arms. Dan looks positively radiant for those few seconds, vibrant, before his eyes seem to dim subconsciously into a half hearted state Phil knows as normal. “What’s it’s name?”

Phil smiles at the scene, reaching out and pushing a strand of Dan’s fringe back into place as he replies. “Sarah.”

“Sarah? Couldn’t you come up with anything better than Sarah?” Dan teases, digging his fingers in the fur behind the cat’s ears. “She’s a monster. I’ve never seen a cat with so much fur.” he adds as an afterthought in a thoughtful tone, senses trained on Sarah’s purrs and the way her paws knead into Dan’s thighs. He fucking loves cats.

Phil seems to watch them both for a long moment, gaze fond as he takes the scene in. It’s dark, way too dark for either of them to actually see much except each other, but they’re comfortable and Dan’s got a cat the size of a pony in his arms and he’s never felt more conflicted with how he feels. Because on one side, he’s melting into the sofa, relishing in affection and contact and warmth and feeling everything under the pads of his fingers. On the other, though, his head is spinning with anxiety, irrelevance dripping down his cheeks and his throat is closing in on itself in a way that suggests that really, Dan isn’t all that calm. He’s vulnerable, yet more guarded than he’s ever been. It’s more accepting to say that he’s forcing himself to be okay.

Sarah is a dark tabby complexion, with such piercing green eyes they seem to glow in the dark of the room. Luckily, she’s the type of cat to purr at every stroke to the neck, and so Dan sort of cradles her in his arms and settles back into the sofa again, his head on Phil’s chest.

They’re quiet for a long time, the cat’s purrs and the rising and falling of Phil’s breaths occupying Dan’s mind. It’s not a ridiculous idea to think that whatever’s happening is quite a big happening, one that Dan should maybe pay attention to. The fact that he doesn’t quite remember how to tell anything apart lately, though, acts as an excuse to play ignorant.

Except, it’s not a particularly good idea to do so, and Dan knows it. Because the light has faded to borderline monochrome and Dan’s ears are filling with a sort of white noise as Phil lifts him up by the chin, freezing them both for a stranded moment. The TV is off; Dan doesn’t quite remember when it stopped crowding the room with obnoxious colour but the silence is soft to his mind, coaxes it into a state of alleviation. He forces himself to breathe.

“Is this okay?” Phil asks, voice so gentle Dan’s not sure he’s actually spoken. The question confuses him; he’s muddled as to what he’s supposed to be okay about. Inwardly, though, he knows exactly what it means.

He nods.

Phil’s finger on his chin is feather light, so soft it feels almost transparent as he brings them closer, pressuring Sarah to slink off Dan’s lap and curl up on the corner of the sofa. Every move is stilted, so slow Dan’s grip on everything slips, falls off balance a little. And there’s a long moment of empty time before Phil connects their lips, feeling a short huff against his cheeks as Dan takes a sharp intake of breath. They stay like that for a moment, Dan’s hands moving to wrap softly around Phil’s neck, before Phil pulls away slightly, slowly enough for Dan’s bottom lip to drag. Dan just stares at him, eyes wide and hair mussed from the wind earlier in the evening; he’s stuck in a kind of vertigo, disequilibrium clouding his mind until he’s thinking only in senses, and he doesn’t know what he wants. Dan wants this, but he also-

It’s too quiet, and takes a little too long before Phil nudges their foreheads together and tilts his head, waiting, only for Dan to move forward and kiss him again with more vigour. It’s fragile and he’s shifting his hips, moving to straddle Phil’s lap with his hands locked around Phil’s neck; they’re still so hesitant despite the sudden urgency Dan seems to adopt. The kisses become longer, drawn out until Dan pulls away for breath, his body leaning in all angles towards Phil. Everything is so dark, fatally ambiguous. Dan’s mind seems to warp Phil into something beautiful and exotic and fresh, something to preserve and handle with care, to leave no scratches or dents. It scares him to the point where his heart jumps, twisted in vines.

Dan pulls back a minute later, hands falling back to his sides, and he just stares at the way Phil’s gaze is trained on him, his pupils blown and lips parted slightly. He’s fucked.

“I’m- I- Sorry.” Dan scrabbles, courage daring him to press their lips together for a split second more before he’s untangling himself and falling back into his own skin, grace lost. He’s terrified, his skin attacking him from the inside out and so he just stumbles over Phil’s carpet until he’s outside and he can breathe in something familiar. Phil’s calls for him are muffled by the door slamming, the vibration echoing into the empty street. Dan heads for the sea.

-

It’s closing on 2:34am, and Dan’s limbs are eroding with each passing minute but he’s okay, he’s fine. He’s used to the feeling, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less harrowing. Grains of sand clamp themselves onto the soles of Dan’s boots, burrowing into crevices. He’s okay.

The numb feeling is something Dan recognises as always being there, sleeping in the edges of his conscience. It’s something that claws at his lungs and makes him want to throw up, something that presumably aids the persistent shaking he can’t get rid of, and he doesn’t like it at all. But the sea is calm and infinitely quiet, reflecting the silence of the sky in a way that makes his eyes flutter closed, seemingly placating his thoughts into soft crashing of waves, and for now he’s unperturbed.

Phil finds him a few minutes later, padding along the sand behind him with jumper sleeves drowning his wrists and curling into his palms. Dan watches him in his peripheral vision, noticing flushed cheeks and shadowed, slightly dilated eyes, mussed dark hair starkly complimenting ivory skin. It’s when he comes to the realisation that Phil is definitely why he feels sick, so he steadies his gaze on the horizon, drinking in grey and green; varieties of cold. Phil doesn’t speak. Dan thanks him for it, because if he opened his mouth Dan’s not sure whether he’d be able to hang on to the thinning thread of reason for much longer.

They stand there together for a while, until Phil’s hair is thick with sea air and he begins to shiver, hopping up and down on the balls of his feet in an effort to warm up. Dan reaches out, curls his fingers with Phil’s silently, and Phil stops his movements with a shaky breath. Dan doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.

“Dan.”

It’s not quite pitch black, the shadows of night casting dark patterns on Phil’s face as Dan turns to face him.

“Yeah?” he replies, voice low, cracked from disuse. Phil’s gaze flickers down from Dan’s eyes, and he’s panicking a little because Phil _better fucking not_ -

“You’re- I mean, You’re alright, yeah? I’m sorry if I ruined things, I- I didn’t realise, and it’s probably a bad idea and you obviously don’t-”

Dan stares at the way Phil’s lips form shapes of  individual words and letters and he frowns, unabashedly, because it’s not supposed to happen like this at all.

“Dan.”

“What? No, no Phil, it’s fine. Honestly. It’s not you. It’s just.”

Phil blinks at him, all wide eyes and dilated pupils, and he’s giving Dan’s heart a fucking beating.

“Just?”

Everything quickly, almost instantly becomes too cold and Dan’s shaking again, so much so it becomes noticeable to Phil, who squeezes his hand. With his other hand he wipes dry eyes and pushes his palm into his temples, waiting for the throbbing in his head to subside. It doesn’t.

And Dan’s so used to being calm, collected. He’s so used to leveling Phil’s gaze with a control that managed to hide everything underneath, and it’s only when Phil tilts Dan’s chin back to meet him that he realises he’s doing a really shitty job at it now. If anything, his eyes scream ‘desperate’, and he hates it.

“It’s not your fault.” he decides on, letting the words sink in, because he’s finally opening up and Phil’s being introduced to the backstories of rough sketches and barely there smiles, however faint. “You’re brilliant.”

Dan can’t find the words for anything else, and so he just stares back at Phil, waiting. He’s failed at his chance of being someone normal, someone mundane enough to love easily; he’s not sure if Phil, the boy who works at an ice cream shop and has a cat named Sarah really has any more to give that Dan can take. Phil smiles, then, a half grimace.

“You can have all the time you need,” he says, voice gentle; “I won’t force anything. Okay? Just- tell me when to stop, and we can stop. Even this; you don’t have to have this. If you don’t want.”

“I want this.” Dan ventures, voice tight. “But- thank you.”

Phil just squeezes his hand, tight enough for him to keep his ground. And it’s enough for Dan to convince himself that maybe, he can drag himself through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted on tumblr


	3. addict with a pen; epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the song for this is Before You Start Your Day by twenty one pilots!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i decided to post this fic to ao3 from tumblr (my tumblr is phansomniac.tumblr.com) as it's probably the most personal fic i've written and i think it's the fic i'm most proud of creating because of that. i really hope you like it, any comments/feedback is greatly appreciated <3

_He thinks that faith might be dead_

_Nothing kills a man faster than his own head_

_He used to see dreams at night_

_But now he’s just watching the backs of his eyes_

_-_

It’s been three weeks, and Dan still spends most of his time not working between the beach and Phil’s house. They have their time apart, but Phil always finds wherever Dan’s hidden himself away, and Dan doesn’t mind in the slightest. He’s found that he’s comfortable with almost anything, around Phil. Yet, Dan’s not quite at the stage where he can slice his heart and mould his thoughts into coherent sentences and so he just opts for using body language; luckily, Phil’s smart enough to figure it out.

Their relationship drags along the ground. It’s not a bad thing.

-

Time brings Dan to decide that sketching Phil is a good idea, and so he sits Phil down on the sand as the sun is setting and pulls out a pen. He’s not sure whether Phil will like his style; it’s messy and ragged and really, just a blur of lines laced together to create a distant yet recognizable abstraction. But he’s doing it anyway, brushing Phil’s hair into something acceptable with a finger before he sits back, and just stares. Phil smiles.

“You’re supposed to use a pen.” He comments in amusement at Dan’s lack of focus. Dan flips him off.

“I’m  _studying_ you,” he declares, “So shut up and let me- stay  _still_ , Phil. Let me look at you. I can’t draw you if I have nothing to go off.” It’s a lie, but one that Phil won’t pick up. All he needs is for Phil to stop _jumping around-_

“Okay.” Phil says, and he stills.

Dan pushes down the scrabbling feeling in his stomach and grips his moleskine tighter, tapping the pen against his lips. Phil’s hair is mussed from the wind, his eyelashes especially thick in the light of the evening. He’s crosslegged, switching his gaze back and forth between Dan and the sea a little way away; his pupils dilate as the sky crawls into a dark, gloomy twilight. And Dan wants to hate him so badly, because he’s not sure if he can do Phil justice.

It takes an hour and a restless Phil before Dan’s done. The waves have had a sort of effect of Phil, made him a little drowsy with sea air and comfort and so Dan has to nudge him a little to get him to concentrate. The awe that breaks out on Phil’s features, though, is worth every line he sketched haphazardly into the paper.

“Beautiful.” Is all Phil says, his voice muted, tender. He looks up at Dan with a smile, and Dan just fucking melts.

-

Two weeks later. They’re sat in a lighthouse, perched on a small bench with a plaid blanket draped across their thighs, staring at the scene outside. It’s past midnight, and Dan isn’t quite sure how they got in here or how long they plan on staying here, but lightning is flashing and the thunder rolls so deep they feel it in the vibrations between their hands.

The sea is terrifying. Waves are being whipped into submission, roaring with such an insistence they burn Dan’s ears from the shelter of the lighthouse. It’s fascinating, the fine colouring of pinks and purples into a convergence of grey, stabs of white hot light littering the sky. Dan wants to imprint it into the backs of his eyes; wants to stare until his eyes sting. Phil’s grip tightens on his hand as the lightning strikes particularly close to them, and his lips are parted, his body leant forward with intrigue and excitement at the scene; if anything, Dan wants to wrap his arms around Phil’s waist and kiss him until he pays Dan attention, but. Not quite yet.

He sits back and laughs as Phil jerks back from the window, eyes wide from the flashes of lightning, and it’s dark but zigzags of white are burning into his retinas with every blink. It takes a moment, where Phil’s gaze turns to him; he’s glowing, cheeks flushed, hair stuck up a little, features animated; and Dan realises.

“Phil,” he says after a long silence, and Phil stills, features frozen in place. He’s still grinning, and Dan’s ready. So he says it. “I’m ready.”

Phil’s grin drops into a smile.

-

Despite Dan’s tendency to lose grip of reality and find himself in an incoherent mess more than twice a week, they’re more than normal. Phil talks him through the times when the ground is falling from underneath his feet and his heart is racing for a reason he doesn’t know and slowly, Dan finds himself becoming used to the support. And it’s scary, knowing that he’s partially reliant on Phil for stability, for the thoughts in his mind to twist into a clarity he finds familiar; comfortable, even. But Dan’s okay, because he’s stopped shaking every time he has a cup of tea and he can bury himself in Phil and hold Sarah in his arms and it’s all so  _simple_ , and Dan likes it. Simple is what he needs.

The sea is still his place of refuge, and Phil doesn’t interfere with that. And Dan can spend time by himself with the sand and the waves and feel like he’s actually getting somewhere; he can sketch until his knuckles feel raw and his hands are coated in black and no one asks why he does it and Dan  _loves_ that. Because Phil doesn’t feel the need to ask, and Dan’s grateful for an excuse not to explain. Some things he needs to himself, for himself.

They have a slow relationship. It takes time, and they both need time to themselves, but Dan’s found he’s okay with letting someone in, he’s fine with loving someone the way he wants to and it’s more than uplifting to find that he can love Phil, even with his flickering disposition. It’s sort of sedated, but in a way that’s being fueled by absolute adoration and respect and Dan fucking loves Phil so much, he really does.

And sounds still blend together into a mess of vibrations, resemblant of a sort of blurry phosphorescence, but Dan’s clinging on with the pads of his fingers and he’s okay. He’s okay.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted on tumblr.

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr


End file.
